


Auto-eroticism Does Not Mean Having Sex With Your Car

by dorkilysoulless (custodian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, cas!Pala, dean!Pala, fem!Pala, just blame gabriel for that last tag, man!Pala, sam!Pala, softcore explicit, unintentional wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:24:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five different Deans.  Five different times he meets the Impala in the flesh.  One of these things is not like the others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auto-eroticism Does Not Mean Having Sex With Your Car

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for [Hellatus Prompt Fic Tuesday](http://itfeltpurefic.tumblr.com/hellatus) on my Tumblr blog. Original link with prompt is [here](http://itfeltpurefic.tumblr.com/post/91843528114/i-think-you-should-write-a-five-times-fic-thats).

**man!Pala**

“You can’t tell me you’re surprised. I mean, the siren was a guy for you. Why wouldn’t your car be a guy?”

“Shut up, Sam.”

“I’m not judging. I’m just saying.”

Dean glances over at the table, where the guy — the guy who’s his car — is leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on the table surface, toying with a seam in his leather pants. His shirt is thin and tight enough to show off what Dean’s brain has already unhelpfully begun thinking of as hot Detroit muscle. His jewelry — a couple of rings, a bracelet, some piercings in his ears — shine like chrome.

The Impala notices Dean’s attention immediately and winks at him. Dean swallows and shoves his hands further into his pockets in an effort to conceal what is definitely the weirdest hard-on he’s had since middle school. 

“I’m just gonna leave you two alone,” Sam says, and walks out without even trying to conceal his smirk. The Impala watches him go, then returns his attention to Dean. 

When Dean doesn’t budge, the Impala stands and closes the distance between them with smooth assurance. He kisses Dean on the mouth without hesitation, and Dean just…well, shit, that’s all he needs to break through the confusion and straight into whatever the fuck this feeling is. 

The contours the body are wrong — warm skin instead of sun-hot steel — but they’re still familiar in a weird kind of way. Like Dean has had his hands all over them forever, honestly. He smells like grease and leather and the road. 

He smells like home.

 

**fem!Pala**

The sex is rough and crazy — no surprise, given how hard he’s always ridden his Baby — but the afterglow is warm and comfortable like a beer on a country road at the end of a long-ass day. Dean traces over the tattoos that stand out eerily bright on her ebony skin: the chrome Impala lettering that runs down her forearm, the vin number stamped on the back of her neck, the LEGO bricks on her ribs, the army man on her collarbone. 

She’s got a scar on her shoulder blade — a pair of initials — and he kisses them. He feels a little weird about them, half guilty and half weirded out that one set of initials belongs to his brother. Sam is literally the last person he wants to think about when he’s in bed with…well, okay, he’s in bed with his car. And she’s beautiful. 

He’s most mesmerized by is the brightly colored sleeve of plate numbers. Ohio. Missouri. Kansas. Most of them he knows, but one is unfamiliar.

“This one was before dad, wasn’t it?” 

She nods. “Sal Moriarty.” 

“Tell me about him.”

She smiles, and her eyes flash like chrome in the sun as her hand runs up his thigh. “Maybe later,” she whispers as she turns afterglow into round two.

 

**Sam!pala**

“So, uh, can we talk about the fact that you were literally inside me earlier?”

Dean blinks and looks up at Sam, hoping like hell he’s just misheard his brother. “Say what now?”

“You heard me.” Sam’s got a weird look on his face, like he’s having trouble figuring out what to say. 

“Okay, then. No.”

He reaches down over the edge of the bed for another beer, which he now wants pretty goddamn desperately. He slips his ring over the edge of the cap, grips the bottle top, and pop. The cap drops onto the hotel carpet as Dean takes a long pull from the bottle.

Sam’s still looking at him all weird. 

“Look,” he says, and rolls his eyes. “You were my car, okay? There was stuff we needed in the trunk. It’s not like I was—”

_Oh holy fucking shit._

“Dude, I totally wasn’t.”

“You kinda were.”

“Okay, fine. Noted. Can we move on?” He pointedly does not look at Sam, because Sam’s his brother and…no. Just… _no_. He feels his face burn. “I mean, it’s not like anyone got off on it. So, you know, no foul.”

“Yeah,” Sam says in a tone that leaves way more room for doubt than Dean’s remotely okay with. “No foul.”

 

**Dean!pala**

They say that a car reflects its owner, but this is ridiculous. 

“You can’t say this is a problem for you, dude. I mean, aside from the fact that you’ve had your hands all over me and in me for years, the sheer number of times you’ve gotten down in my back seat alone has to count for something. Oh, and the front seat. And the hood now that I think about it. That was awesome.”

Dean’s honestly not sure how to respond to feeling objectified by his car. Like, that would be weird as hell on its own, but the fact that his car looks just like him and clearly has the libido to match? 

Nope. This couldn’t possibly get more fucked up.

“And that’s not even the tip of the iceberg. How many times have you worked out a little bit of ‘tension’ in me, huh? I’d say this is a perfectly natural next step, man. You know I know what you like. Plus, you can’t tell me you’re not just a little bit curious.”

“Curious?”

The Impala leans in and nips at Dean’s neck. “You know what I’m talking about. Just how many opportunities are you going to have to literally go fuck yourself? You know, versions of yourself that aren’t demons or some shit? Lay of a lifetime, man. I’m just saying.”

Dean watches as an uncannily familiar pair of hands undoes his belt buckle. The Impala sinks to his knees and licks his lips as he tugs Dean’s jeans down his thighs.

“Oh, and by the way? I like it when you call me Baby.”

 

**Cas!pala**

Dean’s seen his fair share of weird — well, more than his fair share — but watching Castiel stare himself down is a new one.

Well, not _himself_ himself. That might actually make more sense. 

Instead, Cas is standing in the bunker’s garage, staring down a brash, laid back version of himself, whose taste in clothes leans less holy tax accountant and more ripped jeans and Zep shirts. That he happens to be happens to be the living personification of Dean’s car is the weird-ass icing on the cake.

“Hey, this face wasn’t my idea.” The Impala says as he shoves his hands into the pockets and leans back against the wall. “Check the spell.”

Cas — actual Cas — frowns and narrows his eyes, then picks up the book on the workbench. His frown and the furrow in his brow intensify as he turns to look at Dean.

Dean raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“This says the spell will cause an object to manifest in the form of its owner’s heart’s desire.” 

Castiel looks from Dean to the Impala, and then back to Dean. The Impala grins. Dean makes a series of sounds that seem to want very much to be an explanation, but come out as gibberish before he grabs the book away from Cas to read it over.

“So basically it’s like Christmas. Or it would be if you liked Christmas,” the Impala says, with a wink. “I mean, seriously. Two of us at once! Yahtzee, right?”

“Whoa, hang on. It’s not like that.” Dean swallows. His face is burning, his heart’s probably going to explode, and his stomach has basically bottomed out. “I mean, I don’t…we don’t…Cas doesn’t…”

“Cas doesn’t know? Or Cas doesn’t fuck?” The Impala blinks and looks them both over, clearly curious. “I mean, either way I guess that explains why you two still haven’t christened the back seat. Well, re-christened, I guess. You know, considering how many times—”

“Okay, seriously, can we just not?” Dean says, and runs his hands through his hair. “Damn it.” 

When he turns back to look, he sees that Castiel is looking down at his shoes. The Impala, though, is watching him with an eerily familiar expression of concern. Dean tries to storm past and out of the garage, but the Impala grabs his sleeve.

“Hey, you know it’s mutual, right?” he says, low enough another human being might not hear, but Cas is an angel. For all Dean knows he probably hears everything for a mile around.

“Fuck off,” Dean snaps, and tugs his arm free. 

He keeps a half-full fifth of Jack in his closet. It’s not like Dean has to hide the fact that he drinks — too much sometimes, honestly — but just leaving it out all the time kind of strikes him as either inviting trouble or an admission of guilt, and he doesn’t want to deal with either of those things on a daily basis. 

Dean’s getting a pretty good drunk on when he hears a tap on his door. He ignores it. 

Cas opens the door anyway. Dean ignores Cas, too.

“Sam and I have undone the spell,” Cas says quietly as he steps in and closes the door behind him. “For what it’s worth, your car seemed remorseful for causing you distress.”

“Great. Just what I always wanted. A car that feels sorry for me.” Dean raises the bottle to his lips and takes solace in the burn of the liquor as it fills his mouth. 

He watches in his peripheral vision as Cas takes off his coat. Cas folds it — inexpertly — and puts it down on chair next to the door. He does the same with his suit jacket, then sits next to Dean on the bed.

“Before you ask, no, I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Cas nods. Doesn’t say anything. Just sits with his hands in his lap, close enough for Dean to feel the warmth of him but not quite close enough that their shoulders touch. 

It’s torture. Dean wants to scream, to shove Cas away, to do anything but be close enough to him that his own skin aches and his heart is torn open with wishing that something — anything — could fucking happen here. Dean knows it can’t for a hundred reasons. Like, he doesn’t even know what to do with reciprocal affection anymore (if he ever did), and Cas is an angel, and the life is hell and doesn’t leave room for tenderness and soft hearts. But if it did…if he could…

Cas reaches over and slips his hand into Dean’s. He laces their fingers together with uncommon care, almost like a child who wants to be certain of doing it correctly. 

For a second, it’s like his heart stops and he can’t decide whether he’s scared or angry or finally letting himself fall in love. Probably all of them, since Dean’s never known a time when his feelings weren’t messy and too loud.

He lets Cas touch his face, and doesn’t pull back at the soft touch of lips on his forehead, his eyelids, his cheekbone. Cas kisses him on the mouth and Dean gives up on the physical distance between them. He grabs at Cas’ shirt, and intends just to pull him closer, but Dean’s drunk and Cas is eager and they end up in a heap, Cas on top and Dean refusing to complain. 

He’s pretty broken. Drunken kisses on memory foam won’t fix that. But Cas knows his damage, he’s seen the cracks, and it’s not like Cas is mint condition these days either. 

Hell, if they were cars, they’d be all Bondo, duct tape, and baling wire. And maybe that’s…maybe that can be what it is. Maybe that can be good.

As it is, Dean just hopes they’ll hold it together long enough to re-christen his Baby’s back seat.


End file.
